


hair

by knightargents



Category: No. 6 - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fear, High School, I'm sorry Nezumi I always hurt u, Nezumi-centric, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trauma, kinda a modern au, mostly nezumi angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 17:35:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13956627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightargents/pseuds/knightargents
Summary: When you're known as the kid with the long hair, people will tend to react a certain way when you suddenly show up to school after a week of absences with it all cut off and fresh bruises littering your face.





	hair

***

As a general rule of thumb, there’s certain facts that no one questions when it comes to public school.

 

Some of those facts include that the hamburgers served by the district were undercooked, the boys bathroom would always be disgusting, Mr. Rikiga was a creep, freshmen are and will always be annoying, the principal’s a racist, the funding will always be shitty (except when it comes to football, and the district will never be transparent about that), and that Nezumi has long hair.

 

Nezumi has _had_ long hair ever since he moved into the district. He’s not the only guy with long hair. Ibrahim, the one sophomore with bushy eyebrows, grows his hair out into a big, bushy fro. Every now and then one of the black guys has braids that go to his chin. Nezumi though, Nezumi always took it to another level. His hair was long and silky. His hair was tied in a bun with his bangs swept to the side. His hair was let down, past his shoulders and framing his face elegantly. His hair was in a ponytail, showing off his cheekbones and jaw. His hair was beautiful.

 

It was a part of Nezumi, no one questioned it. It’s hard to do, since he’s had long hair before he stepped foot in the district back in grade 6. At this point, Nezumi’s long hair was as much a part of his character as combat boots or hard glares.

 

So when he showed up one day with it all chopped off, it started a brief mayhem in Mr. Yoming’s English class.

 

“ _Neeeeez._ You cut your hair?” One of the girls who sits next to him started.

 

“Holy shit, Nezumi? Bro I didn’t even recognize you without bangs. You look so different.”

 

“Wooow Nezumi why’d you cut it off? It was so pretty!”

 

Granted, he’s a little shocked his hair was the cause of most of the attention in the room. He’s never really had this much attention in general directed at him in school, so he was a bit overwhelmed. He supposes he does look different with short hair. He’s still not used to his head feeling this light, either.

 

“Uh yeah…” Nezumi started sheepishly, “I just felt like it was time for a change, you know?” Normally his hand would scratch the back of his neck in a nervous habit, and he’d pull out a few strings of hair from his bun, but it’s all gone now.

 

///

 

It’s 5:58 in the afternoon when he finally walks into the barber. The door hits the bell dangling above the entrance, letting the receptionist know they have one last customer.

 

“Uh, welcome to Razor Cuts. Ah.. look kid, I’m gonna be real honest with you. We’re about to close in like half an hour and we’re super busy at the moment-”

 

“I can wait.”

 

“....Uh. I mean, you can come back tomorrow? I don’t think there’s really any openings right now-”

 

“I have an appointment with Chris.” Nezumi knows he’s being rude, cutting the guy off before he finishes his sentences, but to him it’s a little urgent. It must show on his face, because although the guy started to look a bit pissed off at Nezumi’s attitude, he tells him to wait near the desk while he gets Chris.

 

A moment later he comes back out near the desk and beckons Nezumi inside. “Chris is the guy with the red beard, in case you didn’t know.”

 

Nezumi, in fact, wouldn’t know. The last time he cut his hair at a barber was over a decade ago.

 

The man, Chris, is dressed like a hipster that spends too much time in the gentrified part of town. It doesn’t really matter to Nezumi, because he saw the man’s reviews online, and he was the _only_ local guy that did hair the way he wanted that had an opening today. “Hey, I’m Chris. Why don’t you sit down here while I get everything ready.”

 

It must appear that Nezumi is really out of his comfort zone here, because whether intentionally or not, the man has a calming effect on Nezumi, which he’s immensely thankful for. Sitting in the chair, he swivels a bit back and forth before the man comes back and drapes a cape over him. “So, what kind of look are you wanting today?

 

“Uh..” Nezumi starts, “I was actually kind of wanting it all...cut off.” His voice does not waver because he clenches his hand so hard that he can feel his nails ripping into his palm where it hides under the cape.

 

The man hesitates for only a split second, but Nezumi doesn’t notice. “All of it? Um, sure! Do you want a fade or did you have something specific in mind?”

 

“Uh, not really.” He has no idea what a fade is. “I just want it, um, really really short. That’s all.”

 

Maybe Chris can tell Nezumi is uncomfortable, which is why he suddenly takes his hair out of the bun. Picking up a brush, he starts to untangle it before getting to work. Little pinpricks of pain pulling at his scalp keep Nezumi grounded, but they also start to bring up memories of hands, memories of his cheek pressing into hard desks. Memories of hot breathing in his ear and down his neck.

 

_“Yeah, sweetheart, so good, so good —”_

 

He could feel his hands shake under the cape, could feel the blood slowly beading up from the crescent shaped cuts his nails had made from clenching them so hard.

 

_“Stop struggling. It won’t make a difference.”_

 

Snip, snip, snip.

 

_moans in his ear, hot breath cooling the saliva on the back of his neck, pain,_

 

_so much pain_

 

God, he was so fucking stupid.

 

_Stupid, stupid, you’re so fucking stupid for staying here why don’t you run why don’t you fight back you didn’t you fight back why did you let him hurt you feel you touch you fuck you_ _why why why why_

 

_His hands pushed you against the desk, caging you in between his arms. Your legs are cold and bent and hurt and you can feel him pressing against you you can feel the saliva on the back of your neck you can feel your hair getting stuck there you can feel it you can feel_ **it**

 

_Your hands shake too much where they cover your mouth don’t let him hear you don’t give him the satisfaction of your screams like you gave him your tears don’t let him take more from you_

 

_His hands bruise your arms where they’re forcibly held against the desk, behind your back, at your sides. His hands bruise your neck when he chokes you to shut you up because in the end he didn’t even want your sounds he just wanted your body he just wanted your sex he just wanted you so bad but he didn’t want anyone else to hear anyone else to take this from him anyone else to break the illusion you asked for this that you begged for this like he wanted_

 

_Everything hurts everything from the bite marks on your neck to the punch to your cheek to your head he smashed against the desk to the scratches he raked down your sides you can feel everything and nothing and you hate him you hate him_ **you hate him**

 

_He humiliates you in more ways than one when he pushes against your lower back and yanks your hair back_

 

_“Look at me baby. Fuck, ugh, you’re so tight-”_

 

_You meet his eyes once before you screw them shut and let the tears fall down and he keeps yanking your head back every time he thrusts you can feel him inside you he’s inside you he’s around you you can feel him in your back and in your neck and in your head_

 

_You think he’s going to rip your head right off, rip your hair right out of your scalp like he ripped your innocence from you when he asked you to stay after school like he ripped your shirt off your back like he ripped your hair out it’s ponytail_

  
  
  


///

  
  


Later, at night, far after his parents went to bed, Nezumi turned the lights on in the bathroom to look at himself more closely. He looks nothing like himself. It’s definitely the haircut, but it’s also the dark bags under his eyes, the hickey on his collarbone he’s been hiding for the past few days, the bruise on his cheek that started to turn yellow.

 

Looking at the clock in the bathroom, it’s 2 a.m. His shaking hand snakes up to his hair. He tries to fist his hand in it, but it’s too short to even grasp. He lets out a bitter, quiet laugh, but it feels out of place with the tears threatening to spill out of his eyes.


End file.
